


in spite of all the danger

by miriad



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack Taken Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, I won't steer you wrong I promise, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, References to Torture, Stiles Needs a Hug, mentions/references to past torture, no really, will add more tags as plot elements are revealed on page
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-09-18 23:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: The Sheriff looks at his watch. Again.Stiles is still not home. It’s four am.“Come on, kid,” he grumbles to himself, thinking through his triage plans for just this situation. His first point of order in all plans is to call Scott.He doesn’t want to call Scott. If he calls Scott, he’s going to wake up Scott, and if Stiles isn’t with Scott, then Scott is going to be involved.Scott is not subtle. Bricks to the face are more subtle than Scott. The Sheriff maybe needs a bit more subtlety than Scott right now.





	1. in spite of all that may be

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this story since 2013. It has haunted my dreams. I finally had to start writing it. I'm posting what I've got for the moment because I'm sick and miserable and I want to, damn it. I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> Please let me know if there are any tags you feel need to be added or if there is anything I missed. I'm trying to only tag for things as I reveal them in the story, but without traumatizing anyone. You can let me know how well, or poorly I actually did.
> 
> Story and chapter titles from the song _In Spite of All the Danger_ by the Quarrymen (who later became the Beatles).

The Sheriff looks at his watch. Again. 

Stiles is still not home. It’s four am. 

“Come on, kid,” he grumbles to himself, thinking through his triage plans for just this situation. His first point of order in all plans is to call Scott. 

He doesn’t want to call Scott. If he calls Scott, he’s going to wake up Scott, and if Stiles isn’t with Scott, then Scott is going to be involved. 

Scott is not subtle. Bricks to the face are more subtle than Scott. The Sheriff maybe needs a bit more subtlety than Scott right now. 

He doesn’t want to think about who that means, so he pours himself another cup of coffee. He looks longingly at the unopened bottle of whiskey that’s sitting on the counter in the kitchen. He hasn’t touched it in years, no matter what Stiles thinks, because it was a problem for him once, and he can’t ever let it be a problem again. 

But in this moment, he wants. He wants. 

He has gotten very, very good at not having things he wants. 

He drinks his coffee, down to the bottom of his mug, standing at the counter, and just breathes. 

Empty, he sets the mug down, and sighs. Pulls out his cell, scrolls though his contacts. Pauses before he hammers his pointer finger down on one specific name. 

The phone rings. Once. Twice. It’s answered before it can ring the third time.

“What’s wrong?” Derek doesn’t even pretend this is a social call.

“Stiles isn’t home. He with you?” The Sheriff appreciates people who can cut the shit. He doesn’t want to chit chat, he just wants his kid home. 

There’s a longer pause than he’s expecting. “No.” Derek pauses and The Sheriff can hear him swallow over the line. “He wasn’t here tonight. I haven’t seen him. Have you-“

“Scott’s my next call but I have a feeling he’s gonna have the same answer.” The Sheriff sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Based on what?”

“A father’s intuition. Look, if you have any ideas, now is the time to share them. If not, I have some searching-“

“There was a group of men in town. They were… “ Derek stops, a frustrated grumble coming from his line, like he’s trying to determine what he should and shouldn’t say, despite Stiles possibly being in trouble.

“Were they hunters?” The Sheriff asks, throwing it out there, revealing one of his cards, but it’s strategic. He only wishes he could see Derek’s face.

“Hunters?” Derek’s voice cracks a bit and it takes everything in him for The Sheriff to not laugh.

“Kid, let’s cut the shit. I know, okay? I’m not always happy about it, but I know. So. Hunters. Yes or no?”

A long pause. A sigh. Resigned. Tired. A little relieved. “Yeah,” Derek says. “They were hunters. They knew of the Argents but apparently didn’t actually know them? They were asking questions, but not about… me. They were asking about kids, like Stiles age, who might have moved to town about 16 years ago. Scott was following them around.”

The Sheriff feels cold. 

His whole body feels like he’s been dunked in ice, his fingers suddenly tight. He almost drops the phone.

“Did they mention any specific names? Were they looking for a specific kid or family?” Breathing is difficult but he forces the air in and out. He’s worked through a lot worse. He’s suffered so much more than this and he’s survived. He can do this. He can, as long as the idea that Stiles is still out there, still safe, for the moment. They just need to go get him. 

“Scott hadn’t heard anything but he wanted to go through their stuff.”

“Bad idea. Do not do anything. They’re hunters, they’ll have some kind of trap to protect their shit. You two do not want to get caught by these guys. You don’t know if they’ll just catch and release or if they’ll kill you.” 

The Sheriff is pacing now, anxiety flowing through him. He looks again at the bottle of whiskey. He turns away from it one more time. 

“What do you suggest, then?” Derek’s frustration is right there on the surface and he’s stopped trying to hold it back. He’s far enough into the call that he no longer cares about trying to make The Sheriff like him. It actually makes The Sheriff like him.

“I’ve got a few people I can bring in. That know about this stuff.”

“Hunters.” Derek isn’t asking, he knows. But he’s not happy.

“Kind of,” The Sheriff says. “Know that I trust them, and I can’t even say that about Argent.”

Derek snorts across the line and The Sheriff feels his mouth curl into a smile, like he and his body aren’t connected, like he’s watching it from the outside. 

“What do you need me to do?” Derek asks. 

The Sheriff leans back against the kitchen counter and taps his fingers across his lip. Hunters in town. Asking about kids Stiles’ age. Who moved to town when Stiles did. First assumption, they’re looking for Stiles. They might even have him. 

If they have him already, or if they are on the hunt and he’s running, then things are already so fucked there’s no way for The Sheriff to pull this plane out of its dive by himself.

“Pull your people together. Get them ready to roll out, but on my call. You can bring them all here, to the house. I’m gonna call my guys, and we’ll figure things out as a group.” He’s dropping away any and all pretenses of precaution, he knows. He’s about to pass the point of no return. If this isn’t an emergency, then Stiles is going to be grounded. Forever. 

“Head over now?” Derek asks, which adds polite points in his column but takes away a few of the ‘follows without questioning’ points, which… isn’t a bad thing, The Sheriff thinks. 

“Have your guys be here in about an hour. I need you here now. I need a lift.”

“What?” Derek sounds honestly confused. It’s adorable. Jesus Christ, The Sheriff thinks. You’re not allowed to think he’s adorable. You’re supposed to be threatening to shoot him in the face or whatever. 

“I’ll explain more when you get here. See you in ten.” The Sheriff ends the call and pours himself another cup of coffee, but this time into the travel mug that reads ‘Best Dad Ever’. 

The whiskey is still calling his name. He reaches out with one hand but pulls it back, and goes to stand on the front porch. to wait for his ride.


	2. i'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to m

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek pulls up in front of Stiles’ house to find his dad on the front porch. He’s not in the expected Sheriff’s uniform, instead in a pair of worn jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel over top. It’s pretty clear where Stiles gets his fashion sense.

Derek pulls up in front of Stiles’ house to find his dad on the front porch. He’s not in the expected Sheriff’s uniform, instead in a pair of worn jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel over top. It’s pretty clear where Stiles gets his fashion sense. 

Derek runs his hands down his thighs, like he’s straightening his skirt, which, what the fuck? He takes a deep breath and carefully rests his hands on the steering wheel, at ten and two. 

The Sheriff doesn’t even wait for him to pull into the driveway completely, just starts walking towards the car and reaches out for the passenger side door. Derek has to scramble to hit the unlock button, to make sure he can get in. 

The Sheriff slides in to the seat and has his seatbelt on and his coffee cup in the cup holder, before Derek can even say ‘hello’.

“Derek,” The Sheriff says.

“Sheriff,” Derek replies. He keeps looking straight ahead, despite feeing the Sheriff’s gaze on his face. 

“I need to get something out of my storage locker, a place just outside of town. Singer’s.” The Sheriff takes a sip of his coffee and groans a bit as he swallows down his first sip of what must have been from a fresh pot, if the smell is anything to go by.

“We’re not going to the station?” Derek looks to the patrol car still sitting in the driveway and the clearly non-regulation clothing The Sheriff is wearing and he starts to get a very uncomfortable feeling about all of this. 

“Oh, no.” The Sheriff snorts. “This is not even close to official Sheriff business. I mean, come on, Derek. You know it isn’t.” The Sheriff takes another huge sip from his mug and gives Derek the side eye, like he’s watching how Derek’s reacting. 

So this is a test. Interesting. 

Terrifying but interesting.

“Are you going to answer any questions or should I just stop talking?” The snark just slides right out of his mouth before Derek can make sure to throw on any filters he’d usually use in situations with law enforcement professional or lawyers. The Sheriff is the former and Derek recalls Stiles talking about his uncle who’d just recently passed the bar. 

“Would you answer any questions, if you were me? Or would you play it close to the vest until it’s all over? I mean, I know what you’ve already done, I’m asking you now if you’d change your methods or stick with what’s… not really worked but you know how to do it really well.”

“I guess I’d play it close. But-“

“Ah! Let’s just see how this works out for us, okay?” The Sheriff drinks more coffee and Derek wishes he’d either made his own or thought to ask The Sheriff to bring out a mug for him.

The drive doesn’t take long this time of day, and they slide through the gate after The Sheriff presses in a code and then uses his right hand on a palm scanner. Which Derek has never seen at a storage facility. Huh.

“We’re looking for unit 1013. It’s a joke,” he says, watching Derek’s face, apparently to see if he gets it and sadly, Derek does not. He can see The Sheriff’s face droop a little but he recovers quickly. “It’s along the back row, one of the deep ones.” He points towards a break between storage buildings. “Yeah, turn here.” 

Derek maneuvers through the space, frustrated with the lack of lighting but glad his werewolf senses still allow him to see, anyway. There, in the back corner, is 1013. He pulls up at an angle, and puts it in park. 

“Wait here until I know that everything’s okay. Then you can follow me back.”

“Follow you?”

“Yeah. We’re picking up my car.”

The Sheriff throws open the door and takes his coffee with him.

“Your car?” Derek asks his retreating back, his words cut off in the slamming shut of the passenger side door. 

All of this is driving him crazy, all of these unknown elements throwing him into an anxious space where he isn’t sure who is who, what’s going on, or why. It makes his skin itch, the clothes on his back almost painful. He can’t stay in the car, so he gets out. 

The Sheriff’s set his mug on the ground while he rolls up the door to the storage unit. A light comes on automatically, something he’s sure was installed by The Sheriff and not the storage company. Derek can smell motor oil, tools, can see an extensive tool bench with items carefully hung on hooks on a peg board. 

But the main event is what’s sitting in the middle of the storage space. It’s covered in a dark gray tarp, so Derek can’t tell what kind of car it is, but it’s clearly a vehicle. From the lack of dust in the space and the smells from the room, someone is a regular visitor to this place, probably to work on the car. 

“What-“ Derek starts to ask but The Sheriff holds up one finger. 

“I’ve wanted to show her off for over seventeen years and I just couldn’t. So, I know it’s just you and me here, but you clearly appreciate an American muscle car. So. Here we go.” 

The Sheriff pulls the tarp off the carp with gusto, like a model revealing a prize on The Price Is Right. He’s right to add all this pomp and circumstance to it, because when Derek actually sees the car, it literally takes his breath away. 

A 1967 Chevy Impala. Black. Ohio plates. Glossiest shine Derek has ever seen on a car not in a showroom, and The Sheriff is beaming at him as he stands next to it. Her. Whatever. It’s a beautiful car but it’s a nightmare. 

It’s a hunter’s car. A specific hunter’s car. The Winchester Brothers. He’d heard stories about them his whole life. He’d had dreams about them, had thought they’d found him to kill him a number of times after the fire. This car is straight out of his worst dreams and it’s right in front of him. 

He pinches himself to make sure he’s actually awake. 

He is.

“This is yours?” Derek finally manages to choke out.

“Oh, yeah. This is Baby.” The Sheriff is folding the tarp, setting it on the workbench, picking up his coffee, all while Derek is staring at the car, mouth hanging open.

“But… but this is Dean Winchester’s car.” Derek manages, barely able to get the name out of his mouth. It tastes like ash.

“Yeah, kid,” The Sheriff says, with a smirk. “It sure is.” 

“How do you have his car?” Derek’s starting to panic. He’s starting to think this is all a trap. The Sheriff’s brought him out here to kill him, to take Derek out because he’s a werewolf who dared to have a crush on his son or something. And maybe he wants the rest of the pack to come to the house so he can do the same to them! Fuck, has Derek just led everyone else to certain doom? Again? 

“Derek, buddy, you’re moving a little slow here. I am Dean Winchester.” 

Derek doesn’t hear anything else because he breaks into a sprint and runs. As fast and as far as he can. He doesn’t hear anything else The Sheriff says after that, just keeps that phrase on repeat. 

_I am Dean Winchester. _  
I am Dean Winchester.  
I am Dean Winchester.  
I am Dean Winchester. 


	3. (i'll keep all the others) from knocking on your door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck,” The Sheriff says as he watches Derek run off. “Any faster, there’d be flames on his feet.” 
> 
> He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Derek.
> 
> _Clearly you freaked out but I still need you at the house. You are not in danger, you idiot._
> 
> He adds the ‘idiot’ on there, because Bobby always did and it always made him feel better. He’s not sure if it will work or not, but he can’t afford to not have Derek on this. He pauses for a second and then types out an additional bit of text.
> 
> _At least, not from me. Scout’s honor._
> 
> He ignores the thought that he wasn't actually ever a Scout.

“Well, fuck,” The Sheriff says as he watches Derek run off. “Any faster, there’d be flames on his feet.” 

He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Derek.

_Clearly you freaked out but I still need you at the house. You are not in danger, you idiot._

He adds the ‘idiot’ on there, because Bobby always did and it always made him feel better. He’s not sure if it will work or not, but he can’t afford to not have Derek on this. He pauses for a second and then types out an additional bit of text.

_At least, not from me. Scout’s honor._

He ignores the thought that he wasn't actually ever a Scout.

After sending that, he goes to his favorites and presses the name listed only as Moose. It rings three times and then the call is picked up.

“It’s pretty fucking early, Dean. You better have a good reason-“

The Sheriff interrupts him, doesn’t let Sam get too far into his pissy bitch mode, mostly because getting him back out again is a pain in the ass. 

“Stiles is missing, Sammy. Hunters have been asking around about a kid that meets his description. I think they might have grabbed him.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I think I’m gonna need to tag you in. And…” He trails off, not entirely sure how to phrase the next part of it. 

“Dean. Come on, time’s wasting. Do you need me to call other people? Grab gear or supplies? What?”

“I think we’re gonna need to make a long-distance call. If you know what I mean.”

“Dean. No. You made a deal-“

“Oh, fuck that, Sammy. You know they don’t take those deals seriously, unless they don’t think they have a choice. The first chance they have to crew us, they will. I think these hunters are looking for Stiles because of who he is. Who his dad is. If that’s true, we’re not going to be able to do this on our own. We’re going to need that kind of heavy hitter.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long stretch of time, long enough that Dean can hear the coffee maker dripping in the background and a bird whistling out his open window.

“You still have the blade?” Sam finally asks, resigned. The Sheriff does a silent fist pump. “Dean, don’t fucking fist pump. This is stupid and might get us all killed. It’s not good.”

“None of this is good, Sam. But as long as I get Stiles back, safe and in one piece, then it’ll be worth it. And yes, you asshole, I still have the bade. You think I’m nuts?”

“That’s certainly been up for debate in the past, Dean.”

“Fuck you. How fast can you get here?”

“I’ll be there in less than four hours. Don’t make any calls without me.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Don’t call him yet. We need to be sure before we paint a giant target on you. You and Stiles.”

“Okay.” The Sheriff says, taking a deep breath. Derek’s car is still running, the lights casting weird shadows around the storage space door. Sunrise is coming. He can smell it. “Okay. I’ll wait.”

“Four hours or less, Dean. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Hey,” The Sheriff says. “It’s me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sam mutters before he ends the call. 

“Okay,” The Sheriff says to himself. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

He slides into the driver’s seat like he was born there, and for a long time, it felt like he had been. It’s like coming home and he has to rest his forehead on the steering wheel before he can put the key in the ignition and start the engine. 

He pulls Baby out of the storage unit, then pulls Derek’s car into the space, just to make sure nothing happens to it. He leaves the keys sitting on top of the front driver’s side tire, then shuts the sliding door and locks it.

Baby’s engine growls as The Sheriff drives her out the gate and back towards the house. 

The first hints of dawn are breaking. He just hopes Stiles is okay enough to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so the reveal. I've been OBSESSING over Dean-as-Sheriff-Stilinksi for literally YEARS. I've finally decided that I give so few fucks anymore that I can just write this crack taken seriously and just put it out there. 
> 
> More to come...


	4. i'll look after you, like I've never done before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Derek about three and a half hours sitting in the woods, condensation leaving a layer of dampness across his leather jacket, the smell of decomposing leaves and the sound of small critters starting to get on his nerves, before he realizes that he’s being ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: in this chapter, there is brief mention of past torture and Derek has a brief moment of panic that I think qualifies as a panic attack. You know yourself, so please be kind to yourself. 
> 
> If you have any content questions or concerns, drop me a note in the comments or shoot me an email at dramaticmercenary at gmail dot com.
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for your patience. I had some story revelations over the past few weeks, which I think have taken this from just a cool idea I couldn't stop messing with, to a solid story that's coming together with a real plot and everything. I mean, that's what everyone WANTS out of this, I'm just glad that it's finally coming together in a way that makes me happy. However, that has meant scrapping some stuff and starting a few things over, and making this chapter come out a lot slower than I'd planned. 
> 
> Thanks for waiting. I hope you enjoy it!

It takes Derek about three and a half hours sitting in the woods, condensation leaving a layer of dampness across his leather jacket, the smell of decomposing leaves and the sound of small critters starting to get on his nerves, before he realizes that he’s being ridiculous.

He’s known the Sheriff or the man who would eventually become the Sheriff, for as long as he can remember. Not quite his entire life, but pretty close. His parents had been friendly with the Stilinskis, trusting them enough to have them over for dinner a time or two when Derek was little and Stiles was too small to be very far from his mother’s side. He’d never had any reason to doubt that trust was anything but genuine. 

Which, now that he thinks about it, matters. If Sheriff Stilinski’s been lying about who he is, the whole time, Derek’s mom would have known about it. As the pack Alpha, she’d been skilled at ferreting out liars and cheats, and didn’t let people get away with much. So, if she had trusted the Sheriff, did that mean she’d known? And had been okay with it? Even if that meant letting someone with the reputation of Dean Winchester live within the pack boundaries?

Derek can’t wrap his brain around that possibility, despite the evidence staring him in the face. But his track record with correctly interpreting evidence right in front of him isn’t the greatest.

He snorts to himself, scaring a squirrel and some early morning birds, just waking up for the day, the sounds of beating wings and chittering teeth harsh against his ears, already used to the quiet of the woods. Which seems to be a solid sign that he needs to get himself together and head back to town.

Derek is not good at trusting people. He hasn’t been for a very long time, and it’s hard for him to decide that he’s going to actively choose to trust Sheriff Stilinski. Dean Winchester. Whatever.

The issue at hand, that Stiles is missing and no one seems to be able to get a hold of him, is ultimately much more important than Derek's comfort or his sense of well-being, so he stops wallowing and makes his way back out to the road, making sure there aren't any leaves clinging to inopportune places.

Derek knows that even if he could remember the code to get into the storage unit to get his car, he also needs the Sheriff’s handprint, and he’s not going to be able to fake that. Not without equipment, effort, and more time than it’s ultimately worth.

He can hike it out of the woods, walk into town, and catch a ride back up later, get the car once they’ve got a solid plan in place. At least, he’s pretty sure he can. Plus, the cool morning air and a brisk walk will do him good, clear his head and help keep the darker thoughts that keep hammering at him at bay. 

Like, what could be happening to Stiles, if he’s fallen into the hands of parties who aren’t happy that the kid’s been spending all his time with werewolves. What would they want with him? Information? To be bait? Punish him? Those kinds of thoughts, and it doesn’t matter how fresh the morning air is or how pretty the sunrise is aiming to be, over the ridge, he can’t fight them off anymore.

The word _torture _bounces around his brain and he physically jerks his head to the side, like he’s avoiding a blow from an opponent. Derek trips over an oddly shaped fallen branch, and throws a hand out, to steady himself against a tree, claws digging into the bark with his effort to stay upright. 

The skin on his back and sides tightens, the sound of a taser echoing in his ears, like Kate’s standing right next to him, and he has to think about each part of his body, focusing on it with every ounce of control he’s got left, to keep from shuddering away from someone who isn’t even there. 

Deep breaths, one at a time, in. And out. Feeling the rough bark of the tree under his fingers, the palm of his hand, his claws retracting. Condensation pooling on his hair, finally running down the back of his neck, making the collar of his shirt wet, cool but warming to body temperature beneath his jacket. Truck tires on the pavement, just through the next thicket of trees. The sun is coming up. He can see the light, can feel it in his chest. He’s not trapped anywhere, not in a basement, not in a cage. He’s outside, in the woods, free and clear. 

He keeps breathing. 

Stiles is going to be fine. Because they are going to find him before anything bad can happen to him. And if anything does happen to Stiles, Derek is going to take care of it. With fangs and claws and blood and whatever the cold thing is slithering at the bottom of his stomach, making him feel like he’s about to puke. 

He pushes away from the tree and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Breathe in. Hold it, then breathe out. Just like that. In and out. Step forward. Left then right, left then right. 

He steps on to the road, the pavement damp with dew, and points himself back towards town.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Derek pulls it out and frowns.

S. McCall: _Where are you? We’re all here and it’s weird._

With that, the low-grade irradiation Derek tends to have regarding Scott floods his system, pushing aside his anxiety and fear. He picks up his pace, trying to type in an answer while he’s walking, grinding his teeth together to keep from swearing out loud.

Derek can hear Stiles’ voice in his head, first a laugh, then a snort, and then a comment. _I didn’t realize it was possible to type annoyed. I mean, angry, sure. Annoyed is a new one._

“Sure you can,” Derek mutters to himself, still looking down at his phone. “You watch me do it every time I have to text Scott about anything.” He snaps his pointer finger down on the send button, pushing out his sharp, frustrated text: _On my way, don’t wait for me, just figure out the plan and get moving. Stiles can’t wait on us to not be total disasters._

Before he can make it too many more feet down the road, a shiny black Mercedes blows past him, slams to a stop, and shoots backwards. Derek fights the immediate desire to throw himself off the road, into the ditch, but doesn’t, not wanting to give any ground or show his metaphorical belly. It’s been a weird few hours and it’s not looking to get any better in the near future. He’s just going to have to roll with it, if he wants to make sure the focus is on Stiles.

The car stops on a dime, so that the passenger side window is even with Derek. The window slides down without a sound and the front map light flips on. The driver’s older than Derek, closer to the Sheriff’s age than his own, with floppy brown hair and a jawline you could sharpen a knife on.

“You Derek Hale?,” the guys asks, his voice louder and deeper than Derek’s expecting. His giant hands are on the steering wheel, at ten and two. The radio’s got some NPR bullshit on, low, like it’s just background instead of something to actually focus on.

“Who’s asking?” Derek feels cold, for a moment, down to his toes. This isn’t how good things start for him, not ever. Control is the key, has always been the key, and it’s where he’s lost his way, every time. He fights his body, keeping his claws tucked away, his hands down, arms tight against his body.

“Right. Okay. Dean said… look, I’m Sheriff Stilinski’s brother. Sam. I’m on my way to his house, to help find Stiles. Dean thought you might need a ride back? Is that making sense to you?” The guy- Sam, apparently- leans into the glow of the map light and Derek can see his eyes, and he can see The Sheriff in them, and Stiles, the same way people always could with he and Laura.

Derek leans down, his hand going to rest on the open window almost automatically, and he gets his first whiff of the guy, and he almost cries, the familial notes of Stilinski and Stiles deep and full, rolling off the guy in a natural wave, nothing about him fake or performative, at least not about this. He has to close his eyes for a second and centers himself, focuses on the _Stiles_ part of it. Derek swallows, opening his eyes, trying to let the tension in his shoulders drop to the road.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “Yeah, it does. Thanks for the ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the comments and promise to response to you all shortly- thank you for the love you've given this story so far. I love the ideas, the guesses, and finding out all the other people who've had the same idea and just wanted someone else to write it, lol. I hope I can live up to your expectations. 
> 
> I'm always open to constructive criticism, and if you have comments you'd prefer to make privately, please shoot me a line at dramaticmercenary at gmail dot com.


	5. burns like a red coal carpet (stiles interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room they’ve got him in is dark. Like, really, really dark. Dark enough that either he’s gone completely blind, which, fair, could have happened, or he’s being held in a windowless room someplace where they don’t want the light to touch him. 
> 
> It’s like being stored in the freezer, with the door shut. It’s dark and the air is cold, and Stiles is thoroughly convinced he’s got frostbite in his extremities.
> 
> He can’t feel his feet.
> 
> He can’t feel his fingers.
> 
> He can feel his shoulder, which is the only thing on his entire body that feels warm, and that’s probably not a good thing. It’s not just warm- his shoulder feels like it’s on fire, which Stiles is sure is a sign of infection. Possibly sepsis. 
> 
> He’s going to die in this dark room and there isn’t anything he can do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your patience. I appreciate it so much! 
> 
> Thanks to @zoe_alden for beta-ing this bit, holding my hand, and getting me to pull the trigger and post the damn thing. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones.

He can’t focus. Not really.

Not that there’s anything to focus on.

The room they’ve got him in is dark. Like, really, really dark. Dark enough that either he’s gone completely blind, which, fair, could have happened, or he’s being held in a windowless room someplace where they don’t want the light to touch him. 

It’s like being stored in the freezer, with the door shut. It’s dark and the air is cold, and Stiles is thoroughly convinced he’s got frostbite in his extremities.

He can’t feel his feet.

He can’t feel his fingers.

He can feel his shoulder, which is the only thing on his entire body that feels warm, and that’s probably not a good thing. It’s not just warm- his shoulder feels like it’s on fire, which Stiles is sure is a sign of infection. Possibly sepsis. 

He’s going to die in this dark room and there isn’t anything he can do about it. 

He’s been off his meds for almost two days. He’s trapped on some table, a piece of rebar nailed through his shoulder like he’s a tent in need of staking to the ground so he won’t blow away (which he guesses is the point), and he can’t feel or move his limbs. 

Stiles feels like he’s going crazy. 

His brain’s spinning, round and round, flying from one thought to the next, the combination of pain and ADHD making it almost impossible for him to land on one idea for more than a few seconds before flitting like a hummingbird to the next. Nothing to distract him, nothing to draw his focus, and he’s practically vibrating out of his skin but unable to do a single thing to fix it. 

He’s tried meditation, a few of the things his uncle’s taught him over the years, no matter how much his dad’s laughed at them both. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Uncle Sam had said once, flipping Stiles’ father the bird when he thought Stiles couldn’t see but Uncle Sam didn’t seem to realize that a) Stiles wasn’t four years old anymore and b) he was only slightly more subtle than Scott, which was (and still is) a spectacularly low bar. “He talks a big game, but I’ll bet you fifty he tries it out for himself in the privacy of his own room.”

Dad had scowled and flipped him the bird back. “And just for that, I’m not ever going to tell you if you’re right or not.”

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Nothing has helped, probably because Stiles can’t seem to settle on one single thing for even a fraction of a second.

On top of everything, he’s got a bit of cough coming on. Which sucks, because coughing with the rebar through his shoulder feels like pissing shards of glass. 

It brings tears to his eyes but he can’t reach up and wipe them away. So his face just stays damp and sticky, neither of which is helping his current issue with the temperature of the room. 

He starts humming, to himself, a song his mother taught him, when she was sick and dying and no one would admit it to Stiles but her. It’s Polish, he thinks, although he’s never taken the time to look any of it up on Google. 

“When I’m gone,” she’d said, her hands pressing against the sides of his face, her skin cool and dry, “and you miss me, you can sing for me and I’ll hear you, up in Heaven.”

“How will you hear me over all the other people singing?,” he’d asked her, thinking about all the churches and choirs and people singing in their cars arounds the world.

“If you sing this song for me, I’ll know it’s you, moj myszko, just by the way you sing it.” She’d sung it to him in her low, gentle voice, and he’d listened and memorized, and tried to prepare himself for a time he couldn’t believe would ever come. 

He’s pretty sure it’s just Hey Jude but in Polish, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. 

He’s sung it to her many times since she died, wanting to believe she could hear him, wanting to believe she wasn’t completely gone from existence entirely. 

Stiles sings it now, his lips moving even if nothing much more than a croak comes out. He’s dehydrated and tired, mouth dry and sticky. He’s not sure how he hasn’t bled to death on the table, the metal in his shoulder not exactly helping to keep the blood on the inside of his body, and yet, here he is, still floating along on a river of pain and anxiousness, mouthing the words to a Beatles song in a language he doesn’t actually speak.

His dad is going to lose his mind, when he finally finds Stiles. Because of course, he won’t find Stiles alive. He’s never been that lucky. 

The stray thought crosses his mind, that if the wolves haven’t found him by now, he’s pretty sure they aren’t coming. 

But that doesn’t make sense. Scott wouldn’t leave him here by himself. In the dark. He knows Stiles doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the quiet. 

He keeps moving his lips to the words of the song that he’s no longer capable of making even faint humming sounds for. 

Not that it matters, but he closes his eyes and tries to remember her face, the way she looked that day, in the hospital. The way her hair’d fallen across her face and she’d smiled at him, even though he could tell she was in pain. Still, she’d sung with him, over and over, until she was sure he had it memorized. 

He can still smell her, sometimes. Her soap and the laundry detergent and the lip gloss she wore that left sticky lipstick marks on his cheeks when she’d swoop down and kiss him. How she smelled like sunshine and fresh grass, even in the middle of winter, or when both Stiles and his dad would cuddle up with her on the couch under a blanket and watch terrible movies from the fifties about giant ants or grasshoppers that were fifty feet tall. 

It never seemed to scare him too badly as long as he could press his face into his mother’s neck and remind himself of just where he really was and who he was with.

He and his dad haven’t been able to watch those movies since she died, even though they’ve tried.

He’s losing it, he can tell, the sense of reality warping around him, which is really just a feeling at this point, since he can’t see a goddamn thing. 

Until he can. 

There’s a glow, in the corner of the room. Yellow and warm, it grows a bit more and then starts moving, heading his way. 

Normally, this is something that would have Stiles freaking out, but being nailed to a table for two days and being sure you’re freezing to death will change a lot of a person’s responses to things, real quick. 

Besides, there’s a feeling radiating from the light, something kind and gentle and comforting, which Stiles thinks means it’s death coming for him, in the way his mother always said it would. Not as a monster trying to steal his life away, but as an angel, welcoming him home.

He can’t turn his head to really look, and he’s not sure he’d understand what he was looking at anyway, even if he could, but the light stops at the edge of his table, and just… hovers there. 

Then, there’s a rumbling. Like thunder, but inside the building. Low and dangerous, like an earthquake but not. The table doesn’t move, not an inch, but Stiles can tell other things are moving around him.

There are words, words being spoken to him or at him, he can’t be sure, but words, the first he’s heard in days, and he strains to listen. To understand. 

It doesn’t work.

Mostly, he thinks, because it’s a language he has no idea how to translate. Maybe Lydia…?

He doesn’t get very far down that tangential path before the light envelopes him and suddenly, every part of him is warm.

Tips of his ears to the bottoms of his feet, there isn’t an inch of skin that doesn’t suddenly have feeling in it, comfortable like he’s been wrapped in a blanket made of down and love. 

There’s a jagged lance of pain through his shoulder, the rebar shifting as his body finally moves itself, now finally awake and able to jerk and twist around like a worm on a hook. It’s sharp enough to make him gasp, the wind knocked out of him, unable to draw in even the tiniest of breaths.

Then, suddenly, it’s gone. Like it had never been there at all. 

There’s a face, above his, looking down at him, and Stiles is sure he’s seen it before but he can’t place it. It bothers him, in that moment, that he doesn’t know this face and yet he knows he does. He knows it. Dark hair, blue eyes, five o’clock shadow that looks like the result of disinterest or laziness as opposed to any kind of stylistic choice. 

Like from under water, Stiles can tell the man is speaking, can hear sounds from his mouth, but he can’t make his brain translate them into actual words or phrases or anything resembling logic or sense. 

He tries to shake out his arms and legs, and keeps singing his mother’s song. Mouthing the words, is more accurate, but he keeps doing it. 

The voice says something else to him, something he can’t figure out and is tired of trying. Whoever this person is, he’s not trying to make things worse, at this point, so Stiles wants to at least know who the hell they are, especially since they showed up in the dark room. 

He can’t make his mouth ask that question. 

He keeps singing. 

A door opens. He can hear it, the hinges needing a good coating of WD-40. Stiles can hear his dad’s voice in his head, grumbling about idiots who have no idea how to take care of anything and why would you want the door to announce your presence every time you went through it? 

There’s muffled yelling. Stiles can’t tell if the sound is actually muffled or if he’s so messed up that he isn’t able to hear what’s going on.

More of the shaking, the thunder. 

The warm light surrounds him and what feels like hands lift him up off the table. 

His legs hang there for a bit, his arms flopping out, despite now being able to feel them all. Stiles feels like a sock monkey.

Then, sound comes rushing back to him, like the return of the tide, and it covers him with a peace he wasn’t sure he knew existed.

“I said, not one hair on his head, not one drop of blood split, or I would tear it all down.” The man holds up one hand, coated in dark, old blood, probably from the table. “You have not listened. You’ve ignored me, at your peril.”

The man draws something on the table with his bloody finger, next to Stiles hip, then slams a hand down on the table in the middle of his drawing. 

There’s a flash of light.

An explosion of thunder, so loud as to break through all the layers of cotton wool between Stiles and normal sound; powerful enough to shake all his bones, reverberating up through his teeth. 

A snap, like a rubber band being pulled out and let go again, another flash of light and rumble of thunder.

And then….

And then….

He’s not in the dark room anymore. He’s not on the table anymore. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not bleeding anymore. 

He’s standing in a parlor, a pink paisley wallpaper on the walls, no windows, and the man from the room is standing across from him, staring. 

“What just happened?” He asks. Or, more appropriately, tries to ask. It comes out like a puff of dust. 

“Stiles,” the man says, his arms hanging at his side in such a way that Stiles knows means he’s fighting himself to keep from trying to reach out and hug Stiles. 

Stiles wants to ask if he knows him, but he does. He knows he does. From a long time ago. 

He remembers the trench coat. He remembers the tie. 

“Where?” Stiles does manage to get that out, his throat not quite as dry. He reaches up to rub at his neck, using his left arm to do it, trying to test out his shoulder without making it obvious. 

He’s pretty sure he’s obvious.

“The last place anyone will think to look,” the man says. He’s got the same flat inflection Stiles’ mom had. He licks his lips the same way she did when she was nervous. 

Stiles wonders if he steps closer, if he’d smell like grass and sunshine and laundry detergent.

He makes his feet stay where they are. 

“Where is that?” Stiles croaks. 

The man looks away and sighs and Stiles knows he’s in trouble. Not that the man is dangerous to him, per se, but that he’s been swept up into something and he won’t be able to untangle himself until it’s resolved.

“Well?” Stiles presses, coughing a bit. He braces himself for the agony coughing has caused for the past half day at least, but it’s gone, at least for now. “Who are you, anyway?”

The man looks hurt for a split second but then it’s gone from his face as if it had never been there in the first place. He squares his shoulders and rolls them back.

“I’m Castiel, an angel of the Lord. I… knew your father. Once.” The man- Castiel, Stiles corrects himself internally- takes a step back, towards a door that Stiles has just now noticed. “I owe him a debt, one I’m not sure I can ever repay. I’ve brought you back with me, to hide you while we figure this all out.”

Stiles tries to look angry, but he’s just jittery. He can’t stand still, he can’t stop bouncing from one foot to the other, and he can’t stop looking at Castiel as if he’s seen a ghost. He crosses his arms over his chest, still not happy with the answers he has, or has not, gotten so far. Castiel sighs and leans against the wall. 

“Stiles Stilinski, welcome to Heaven.”


End file.
